Campaign of the Month:
November 2016

X-Com: Defiance

Roy had been seeing more of the posters showing up. Humanity Front posters with their anti-augmentation and anti-meta propaganda. Roy was the poster boy for what they were against. An Ork with cyberware and bioware currently on his way to a street doc to install even more cyberware. Not that any Humanity Front member would care what an ork did to his body.

These days, every bit of who you are can be improved with the right piece of gear. Think you’ve got quick reflexes? You can be quicker. An artificial neural network’ll make you faster than a nervous jackrabbit. Think you’re strong? Switch out the muscles you were born with for a set that’s been custom grown for brawn and efficiency and you’ll take strong to a whole new level. Think you’re charming? Implant a few sets of specialized pheromone dispensers like Jax and people will swoon when you walk by and nod enthusiastically when you talk.

But it’s not free. And we’re not just talking money; there’s a higher price to pay. All this stuff is useful and great, but it’s artificial. It’s not human, and your body knows it. Each time you get one of these augmentations, you give up a piece of yourself. You lose something inside of you, the essence of humanity. Nobody quite understands what this ‘it’ is, but we know this much—the more artificial you make yourself, the farther you get from actual life. If you get too far, whatever animated you is going to disappear, until all the gear you bought just collapses and becomes indistinguishable from any other pile of silicon, steel, and chrome. Or at least that’s what Roy thought he knew until he saw those cyberzombie ‘kids’ flying toward him.

In the end, all this augmentations stuff comes down to a single question: How much of your humanity are you willing to trade for power? Or at least it used to. Roy wasn’t human anymore, the alien virus had transformed him into a Muton-human hybrid, an ork to those still unaware of the alien threat. Damn Tolken and his racist propaganda.

Throughout his constant battles against Sectoids, Thin Men, Mutons and those aliens still in the background, a devil whispered in Roy’s ear. “Your not strong enough to withstand the storm.”

Well after today’s surgery, I can finally whisper back in the devil’s ear, “I am the storm.”

“Awesome in flight flick, Roy. That Indiana Jones was just the kind of inspiration that Jax needs.” Alan smiled as they deplaned.

“And it has given me an interesting idea. Given Jax’s rather low comfort level traveling through anything but a mall or following a car path, maybe we can take a page out of the script and do as they did in the movies. Perhaps we can imitate the character Belloq and simply follow Steve and crew as they blast and hack their way through the jungle and then take what we need to from them when they are finished all the hard work. That way Jax doesn’t have to cut her way through anything, she can just follow the beaten path and we can also benefit from their work as we will be fresh and they will have put considerable effort into trail blazing.”

“Unless we would like to entertain the ideas that Grace and i were kicking around. That was pretty solid too.”

“I think what Alan fails to understand is that is what the bad guys do. Jax won’t be any more comfortable trekking through the jungle following a beaten path. Unless Alan wants to hire a road construction crew, pave a road there and then we can drive an RV. An alternative would be for some of us to find the location and then have Jax lowered from the plane right there.”

“ANDRE, you ro – ooo- oh nooo graa – ", the sounds of hurling in the head resounds around the plane as my reaction to my lunch continues unabated.

After that clever innovation on fries that Andre had returned with the last time they were in Montreal, I had ben willing trust Andre to get lunch. He claimed that the smoked meat was even better than the Philly and that was a statement that needed testing. And, though I could do without rye, it hadn’t seemed to be a bad sandwich. Not on par with a Philly, but the grainy mustard was a nice touch.

But …

“Bwaaa …”, for the 10th time today, I was evacuating my poor abused stomach. I bet I have even tossed my Philly! Gods I hate the French! That clever poutine they created masked the evil of the Montreal smoked meat sandwich with which it came. And like a fool I fell for it! Never trust the French! How many times do we have to learn that lesson?!

“Huhh, huhh, huhh nyaaa …”, I gasp and dry heave and heave some more. But, the heaves pass and the worst seems to be over. It looks like my spleen and liver in the bowl but I do feel a bit better.

You can't handle the truth

I’m running late again. I know Laurent will tease me and say I’m always running late. Really how was I to know that walking into a doctor’s clinic in Montreal for treatment was going to take so long. First the hours of waiting to see the doctor then the explanations of my injuries. First repeatedly saying it was most definitely not a bullet wound and yes I was sure and don’t you think I’d know if I had been shot? Finally I had to threaten to break his wrist if he wouldn’t give me a damn tetanus shot.

I walk into Maison Boulud and see Laurent already at the table. There’s an empty bottle of red wine on the table. Laurent is still looking stressed. He has been for months and he’s still been drinking much more than normal.

Sorry I’m late.

I pause at the look on his face.

Again.

It is not unexpected.

Laurent winks.

I thought medical care was supposed to be free in this country. I almost got questioned by the police just trying to see a doctor. As if people aren’t shot around here…

Well, you are here and the food is supposed to be fantastic. The finest French cuisine, or so I’ve heard.

Personally I would have rather ate at the food court of some mall so I could have gotten some sushi or a burger or both.

So, are you finally going to spill the beans? There’s only so many times we can keep up the small talk in fancy restaurants before I get bored or you go broke. Really you need to talk to someone before the tension and the drinking become a problem.

Well, I’d say it was your lucky day but after you hear what I have to say, you probably won’t feel that way. You were right.

He pauses.

Well of course I was right.

Its my turn to pause.

You mind telling me what I was right about this time?

I can tell by his eyes he’s amused with me. If he didn’t have so much self control he’d be laughing at me.

In our last conversation, you were right about, well just about everything. XCOM. I’m a part of it. You know our enemy and our purpose. As you know the governments have stated that they wouldn’t be funding us anymore. Unfortunately, unlike the promises of many politicians, they’ve kept their word. Our funds have rapidly depleted and now… well they are almost gone. In addition, our personnel has slowly been reduced. Some were lost in the fields, others have been captured, and some have just left. At the moment, we are pretty much just a skeleton crew. I’m hoping you and your team will join us and bolster our roster. You’ve more than proved yourselves. You are capable, resourceful and trustworthy. Hopefully you will be part of our rebirth.

I am taking the liberty of writing to you directly, in violation of hierarchy and protocol, to humbly request urgent reassignment. I do not take this step lightly, but I have taken the matter up with my superior on several occasions, and we have been unable to reach an agreement. Dr. Cornell insists I am irreplaceable, and while I fully understand that my combined credentials in both Neurocybernetics and Thaumaturgy make me a valuable asset to the IOND’s efforts, I cannot, in all honesty, continue to give my best when I live in abject fear, not only for my life but my very sanity.

On accepting my initial assignment to the project, I believed I understood the inherent risks in cybermantic research. The past two years, I have come to the realization that they are far greater than I (and I dare say “we”) had ever contemplated. Harrowing and traumatic though my personal experiences—and those of my colleagues—in the deep metaplanes have been, it has been the everyday toll on our minds and spirits that is causing me to despair. Only last month, we lost Martin Xiang, a valued co-worker and good friend, during the metaplanar component of a procedure. In March, Dr. James Royce had to be forcibly restrained after magically assaulting three members of his staff. I was part of the on-site evaluation team that reviewed the incident, and though we’ve had no further contact with Dr. Royce after he was handed over to security, our findings indicate a distinct taint to the astral signature of his workings—one I should add had not been detected before. I believe more frequent psych evaluations might have been beneficial in detecting the problem before it manifested, and I have suggested as much to Dr. Cornell—though this will only attenuate the psychological hardships and stresses of our assignment, not resolve the underlying problems. These and other incidents during my tenure with the project have lead me to conclude that, if I were to stay my present course, both my life and my sanity are at risk.

No matter how callous and cold one grows, how much distance we try to place between us and the subjects, the constant burden of what we do and how we do it invariably takes its toll. Which brings me to the issue of our subjects. Rationally, I fully understand that they are either volunteers, terminal cases, or victims of extreme trauma. I comprehend we do them a service. However, emotionally, one cannot work with them for any amount of time without coming to the realization of how traumatic the cybermantic process truly is on the intelligence locked within. And I have come to doubt that any of them realize the true cost of their decision. This burden has greatly increased since being transfered to the S100 project here in Montreal.

The elation of bringing someone back from beyond the Threshold, of reigniting life by combining the wonders of science and magic, has faded for me. When they reopen their eyes, reawaken to themselves, all I see now is the lost child in them, the disconnection and consternation, the fundamental doubt in their spirits that something is wrong with them, something that can never really be set right. That in my mind is the true reason we lost so many before the techniques were perfected. I don’t simply refer to the cognitive disorders and mental dissociation either. This is much deeper than even those. Something spiritual in nature. Only someone devoid of any empathy could overlook the spiritual desolation that follows the process. Despite the advances in the technology, it is impossible to ignore the feelings of depression, abandonment, apathy, and anguish that radiate from their auras. It is, I dare say, an effect amplified by the perpetual astral background count the procedure generates. Even non-Awakened staff report feeling unease and disturbed in their presence.

I also find Dr. Cornell’s fixation with the line of research resulting from our dealings with the Xenos troubling, to say the least. The nature of the techniques we have been privy to through this association are disturbing. Their cybermantic rituals involve elements that are not only unethical in the extreme, but violent and illegal; their theoretical approach is radically different from our own. As you are undoubtedly aware, the process developed by the Xeno relies upon literally killing the subject under controlled circumstances and then bringing them back to life, imbued with a new spiritual essence drawn from some other source. The technique is similar enough to the process of becoming a vampire that parallels are unavoidable. While the technique does not require the devouring of human life force, and might have originally been intended as a cure, I find the requisite forms and rites inherently troubling.

I do not trust our Xeno colleagues and would strongly advise severing the relation and purging any such research from our systems. I am fully aware that, as Director, you sanctioned this partnership, but I cannot condone pursuing these practices further, and I truly hope you agree and urge you to reconsider.

It was amazing the truth that was currently hidden from the world. Trump wasn’t just killed, aliens had planned it. They also planned to switch his dead body with a clone. After all, nothing won elections like a candidate getting shot and surviving.

“Sure, I could have saved Trump” Roy thought for the hundredth time. “And if I hadn’t been changed into an Ork, the very thing Trump said he’d put in those Chicago concentration camps, I probably would have. But this was for the best. Trump was down in the polls, this way, the democrats would be blamed for the assassination. The aliens had seen to that. Pence would ride that bombshell for the win.”

Anyways Roy was pretty sure Trump would understand. He may not have liked it, but he did say “The point is that you can’t be too greedy.” and we are getting paid by both sides. The aliens and those looking to interfere with the alien’s plans. Trump had to respect that. Plus Trump was going to lose, and if there was one thing he didn’t like, it was losing. And Orks. This way Trump could claim in his dying breath that he didn’t lose, that the election was rigged.

Roy started up the preflight checklist while the rest of the group searched for the bomb that was no doubt placed in the plane. You can’t trust aliens after all.

The Tony Robbins Motivational Quote App™ provided the preflight quote

“Anyone who thinks my story is anywhere near over is sadly mistaken.” Donald Trumps voice delivered the quote over the comms.

Perhaps Trumps story wasn’t over, in a world with magic, spirits and aliens anything is possible.

“Yes, mommy. Uncle Tony and I are good. We even had Chinese for dinner last night.”

“Ok, beti, I’ll see you soon. Be a good girl.”

“Bye mommy.”

Jax hangs up the phone and looks around the small office. The hospice is quiet for the night, with only the faintest ping of a medical monitor or a scuff of faint footfalls.

At least everything is going ok back home. I’m glad I was worried about nothing after all….

Sitting bolt upright in the chair, Jax grabs the small bag of green powder from her pocket and inhales a pinch. Within seconds a feeling of mental focus rises within the young woman as the mundane world fades into grayness, replaces by bright auras of life and magic.

Carefully making her way back out to the hallway, Jax stays hidden in the shadows as she scans for auras moving about in the darkness. So much of what she sees is unfamiliar and difficult to interpret, but within moments she finds her prey.

The small creature can only be a grey, but next to it floats a dark and sinister form that is difficult to even look at directly. Feelings of dread and revulsion threaten to overwhelm her, forcing Jax to focus only on the small alien. The intruders slide into one of the rooms and hover near a child’s bed before the occupant gently floats out and back down the hallway toward the entrance.

The actress follows carefully and at a distance for many blocks, shivering miserably but only partly due to the cold night air. Several times she almost reveals herself to the alien abductors when the horribly oppressive aura of the grey’s companion threatens to overwhelm her composure.

After what seems like an eternity of darkness, cold and dread, the aliens and their prize arrive at an abandoned warehouse or factory. The dilapidated chain-link fence is plugged with rusted cars and the ‘gates’ of the place are heavily armored school buses. The entire area is blanketed with an even stronger aura of despair, darkness and horror, forcing Jax to turn back voluntarily or run screaming in madness.

Wrapping herself even tighter in the woolen shawl, Jax begins the long cold walk home.

Probably just found the Initiates new hideout. Going to need everyone’s help to deal with that place. Hopefully their American job will be done soon.

The waiting really is the hardest thing. I’m trying to relax, its still going to be about half and hour before the speeches start. My link chimes again. I need to concentrate so I power the commlink down.

A while later, I’m standing by the Liberty Bell watching the target head to the microphone. The action should start soon. I check around me making sure my team is in position. Rodriguez is closer to the bell with his medkit and Agent Braddy is trailing behind the target. I look around trying to see where the bullets might be coming from.

BOONNNNGGGGGGG! The Liberty Bell rings a horribly distorted wobbly tone. The target drops and Rodriguez who was right near the bell just explodes. What a terrible stench! Is that acid? Come on Jamie concentrate!

I run for the target, since Rodriguez is down the secret service agent helps me throw the target on the gurney and we head back for the ambulance. I take a quick look back, the bell definitely is dissolving in places.

We load up the ambulance and start heading north.

Turn around when possible.

Medic 7, where are you headed? Please respond.

I continue my drive north on 6th street. Look in the mirrors and see the helicopter getting pretty low. It can’t be shooting at me right? I mean I have the target in my ambulance. They wouldn’t risk it, right? The motorcycles are still with me trying to figure out what to do.

Make a left turn in 250 feet.

Are you playing pornography at work, while driving a critically injured VIP in an ambulance?!? Wait… is that you? You disgusting pig! I really don’t want to see your home made porn videos. Turn if off now!!

What I? Umm, how did that happen! Turn it off!

Medic 7, where are you headed? If you don’t respond we will be forced to take action!

Is she your….. what kind of pervert are you? Hey, where are we headed? I just got a call from my boss, we should have gone west.

Turn around when possible.

Umm, yeah, I had a call from CrashCart saying there was a crash with a couple of school buses in that direction.

I see a quick streak go by and then a missile hits the road quite a ways in front of us. Is that a warning shot? It is even beyond where I want to turn off onto the highway. I’m frantically jamming the buttons on the video screen to remove the video of me that’s playing. A quick glance in the back, shows Agent Braddy has drawn her gun.

Hey buddy, watch out! The van! The van!

I look up and there is a GMC bulldog heading right for me and there’s my turn. I slam the break and crank the steering wheel to avoid the oncoming vehicle and to make my turn. Concentrate Jamie!!!

The van reacts at the same instant…

Turn around wh…

Nice driving Roy. The navigation/entertainment system is offline. Guess the ambulance is pretty much a wreck. ‘CrashCart’ that really is an ironic name…

Well, what a pickle that was. But I do so love a gherkin from time to time! Would have loved to see their smug Alien faces when Roy smashed their van into that Ambulance and brought final ruin to their foolishness! Still, they got what they wanted – one seriously dead clown. And it was a pleasure to fire that American rifle. I must say it is an awful lot like them – big, loud, blunt and extremely effective. Shame about that bell, but repeater rifles are difficult to control at the best of times and the alien threat caused more than a bit of strain. I wonder how they can not recognize the irony of such a named bell. Liberty Bell indeed! Those Americans, I swear.

Ah well.
Shame too that Rosenberg chap turned out to be a sympathizer at the least and possibly even an alien. Imagine, thinking that such as us, sworn enemies of the filth, would actually assist in his little plot. it was a nice bit of shooting that took out the thin man, but the destruction of the ambulance is what really scuttled their ship. No one trustworthy to take the body for replacement then, was there, wot?

Still, we held up our end of the bargain. Travel all over here and there. Check. Do all kinds of hinky things. Check. Shoot the madman with the silly hair. Check. Just like they asked. So where is our 100K? They gave it to us in X4! Unbelievable. What are mercenary standards coming to these days when a runner can’t even trust the Johnson, or Rosenberg, to pay up when a job is done? I can’t hid the grin a the silliness of the thoughts. Standards indeed!

Foolish Aliens. And they say we are arrogant. Those dumb runners couldn’t possibly have figured out their Alien overlord plan! Oh no, not those simple minded tools. Far too simple to ever figure it out, let alone put a stopper in it. Bah, it is almost embarrassing to have beaten them so easily at their little game.

Unless … unless they WANTED us to discover it all and to ruin it. Maybe the plan was to discredit Clinton, remove the clown and insert a favourable candidate of their own and win the country that way. But to do that they would have had to plan on us doing everything for them, then plan on us figuring out their plan, but understand that we are loyalists and were going to foil their plan at the same time as fulfilling the contract and so plan to have it foiled in such a way as to guarantee their real plan’s success. Which means that we just played into their hands and that they are even further along on their time line for invasion.

Ouch! That just hurt my brain.

Stop it and concentrate on getting blowing up the New Dawn crazies. Yep, back to Montreal to stop what seems to be yet another alien threat and maybe some more of the poutine. McDonalds may own the fries market, but these Canadians sure know how to innovate!

Snickers from the rest of the team came over the commlink. Yeah, Roy knew that he’d not here the last of this for some time.

“Roy, looks like the target’s daughter is returning home. You need to stop playing with your snake and get out of there.”

“Yeah, I’m seeing it on the Noizquito’s camera. Just a second.” A couple months ago Roy wouldn’t have the strength to yank the festo sewer snake free of the pipe. But since turning into an ork, it was a minor feat of strength. It was one of the few benefits of the alien virus he’d been exposed to and that had now spread worldwide turning a small but significant amount of the world’s population into metahumans.

The freed drone seemed to have only minor damage from the forceful extraction from the pipe.

“Ok, trying this again, but with the exhaust pipe for the dryer.”

The AR display showed the snake’s sensor interpretation of the pipe. The dryer exhaust pipe was much easier to maneuver the snake through.

A quick view of the display showed the daughter and a gang of friends were almost at the house. To late to get out of here without being seen, time to deal with the gaggle of angst ridden emo teenagers. Roy stepped out from behind the bushes.

From high in the sky the noizquito fed a stream of data to the team showing a group of teenagers walking down the street. There uniform is black, ill-fitting and androgynous. Both the boys and girls were wearing tight black skinny jeans, eyeliner, too-small cardigans, striped T-shirts, facial piercings and Converse sneakers. Their hair is black swept over the face, spiky or striped or pinned back with cute hairclips or a bandana. Andre had seen less diversity in appearance at military parades.

“That band is so embarrassing, even my mom has heard of them. I…” Raven says as a six foot six, two hundred and seventy pound ork jumps out from behind the bushes. Screaming incoherently something about “Ork Lives Matter!” and thrusting an pamphlet on ork tolerance out in a meaty hand.

The teenagers scattered to the winds leaving Roy alone on the street.

“Didn’t even need a clown costume to scare them off. Being an ork, does have it’s advantages.”